“No.”
“Well that makes sense.”
“No, no,” he protested. “I was at… I was working. I didn’t get to watch tonight. But you were on the news, too?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, Mr. Samson,” she replied, tossing one, then another of the stems into the stream. “No, Mr. Samson. I should have been. I deserved to have been. They talked a little about me but they never said my name. They never said Mrs. Zitzer. They never said Donna Zitzer. They never said Mrs. Donna Zitzer. They never said Mrs. Craig Zitzer. They never…”
“I think I follow your meaning.”
“You did know that my husband Craig died, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was very sorry to hear about that.”
“And your wife Kimberly? Was that her name? She also died?”
“Yes, she did.”
“I remember that funeral, the mass and all. It was a lovely mass. You were there too, if I recall.”
“Yes, I was.”
“You sat… I remember now. You sat in the first pew. On Mary’s side.”
“Yes, I did.”
“What a lovely ceremony. We need to have more of those around here, don’t you think?”
He didn’t respond.
Zitzer raised her eyes again and Samson did the same. “Nice clouds,” he offered. She tossed a few more flowers into the creek, then began to walk away.
“Mrs. Zitzer?”
She stopped, then returned to his side, resuming the conversation as if it had just begun.
“Mr. Terence Samson. Your wife must be awfully proud of you, being made the secretary for the Secretary of Finance.” She examined a large, white daisy. “Do you have to type a lot in that position? I used to know how to type but I don’t remember how any more.”
“There’s a lot of typing that goes into, it but I’ll manage.”
“I was so surprised that they would say on the news that you were going to be a secretary but that they didn’t even say Mrs. Zitzer or Donna Zitzer or…”
“Why didn’t they say anything about you?” he asked, holding back a grin.
“Because they think I’m crazy, I think.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I saw.”
“What was that?”
“I saw two men run away from the helicopter that landed over there,” she replied, nodding in the direction of the crash.
“Oh?”
“Yes I did. Yes I did. And then… did you ever read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember… do you know who wrote it?”
He recollected. “Lewis Carroll?”
“No he didn’t. No he didn’t. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson wrote it. Lewis Carroll knew him, though. I think they were friends. Mr. Dodgson just let him put his name on some of the books. Do you remember the White Rabbit? The one with the pocket watch who kept saying he was late and had to go away?”
“Sure.”
“That’s why I wasn’t on the news tonight.”
Samson scratched his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you remember where the White Rabbit went?”
“Down a hole, I think.”
“Yes he did.”
“So… “
“And that’s where the men who ran away from the helicopter went. That’s why I wasn’t on the news.”
“Down a hole?”
“Right down a hole. Right down a hole.”
“Into the earth?”
“Just like the White Rabbit. Just like the White Rabbit. No one believed me.”
Samson looked at his own watch. Quarter of eight.
“I can imagine,” he offered. “I’ve never seen anyone drop down a rabbit hole here, but I’m sure it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“That’s what I thought. And no one believed me when I said I saw Cardinal Castro earlier in the morning. Did you know that on the news they said he died and that you were going to be his new secretary?”
“I heard that,” he nodded. “But I didn’t believe it for a minute. Where’d you see him?”
“At the Cathedral.”
“Today?”
“Yes I did.”
“Where?”
“In the Cathedral.”
“No, I mean where in the Cathedral? Saying mass?”
“Not saying mass,” she responded, moving closer and lowering her voice. “I think he was hearing confessions. I was very embarrassed. I didn’t say anything to him, though. I suppose I should have apologized.” She tossed a few more flowers into the water. “He didn’t see me. You won’t tell him I intruded on the confession, will you?”
“Of course not. Whose confession was he hearing?”
“It might have been one of the men who went down the rabbit hole. In one of the secret rooms beneath the Cathedral.”
“Figures. I really have to be going now, Mrs. Zitzer.”
“Where are you going?”
“To dinner.”
“I’d go with you but I have to put these flowers in a vase. They’re very fragile.”
“May I have one?”
“Certainly.”
He picked a spare daisy, thanked her and continued on until intersecting Nicholas Boulevard, the main drag, the street leading to the Village. It was only four lanes at that point but a thousand feet before it reached Village proper it switched to six with a generous parkway running down the center, filled with high trees and perfectly trimmed bushes. Not that six lanes were needed, or even four for that matter. Traffic was always light inside the fences, most choosing to walk, ride bicycles or hop on one of the yellow and white shuttles that coasted among Residential, Administration and Cathedral between six in the morning and ten at night.
He always walked. Even during the worst of the Illinois winter cold snaps, ignoring the underground passages spread beneath the Creek. It was such a beautiful place. Almost Utopian: all physical needs cared for; all spiritual needs tended if someone desired. Not that everyone who lived or worked there was Catholic. Current stats demonstrated 29 percent weren’t. Ability or talent or various flavors of juice were the ingredients for a place; a baptismal certificate wasn’t.
As he reached the beginning of the commercial area—two blocks going north, south, east and west, centered at the intersection of Nicholas Boulevard and Bethlehem Avenue—he marveled at its storybook look. For all he knew—and he knew better—the Village was a movie set: the low buildings nothing more than painted props held up from behind by 2 x 4s and sandbags.
He was startled by the ringing of a public phone beside one of the kiosks, which made him remember telling Angelique he’d call later. He made a mental note and then just as quickly erased it because of Carter’s parting shot—the look on his face when he remembered Samson had been out on the West Coast when the trumped-up scandal the Acers were floating supposedly occurred. He walked past the Post Office, past the travel agency, then lingered in front of one of the art galleries. Though it was open he didn’t go inside, contenting himself to stare through the window. Admiring the Lionne-Demilunes hanging alone on an interior wall.
COMBAT DEATH.
Though there were only a few residents who could afford such a treasure, there were many visitors who could have it wrapped up with pocket change because Sanctuary Creek was one of the greatest siphons for money in the Western World.
Not just regarding Archie Knight or Annie Knight. There was hundreds of others who regularly came calling, desirous to be a cog in the massive money machine the Church had become. With hundreds of billions of dollars to invest and no accountability except to God for its decisions, the Church was a major player in the dealings of the United States and the rest of the planet. The Vatican Bank was now one of the largest financial institutions on earth, far and away the biggest private concern. But the Bank was nothing more than one of the operating units of Vatican Holdings, Ltd., a sprawling conglomerate tha
t, on the occasions it sneezed, did so with gale force winds. Vatican Investments was the eighth largest brokerage house in America, Sancreek Insurance the 11th biggest personal lines insurer in the country. Palatine Trading, Ltd. was the fourth largest import-export operation on the North American continent and Chapel Real Estate owned, bought or sold enough land on a given day to make a sophisticated head spin. Finally there was Vatican Ventures, an ever-expanding collection of partnerships and trusts.
And now I’m in charge?
He continued toward Kuang’s. The place was mobbed, even more than he’d expected. The 15 or so outdoor tables on the broad sidewalk outside were already taken, the waiters and waitresses in their starched white shirts and yellow bow ties scurrying to meet demand. Thirty customers stood along the low iron fence, most holding the complimentary glasses of wine always handed out by owner Kevin Saar. He walked past the tables and line into his favorite local oasis.
Inside, the picture looked no more promising. He jostled to the reservation podium and greeted its usual keeper.
“Hi, Crystal. Looks like a full house tonight.”
“Tell me about it.” She smiled.
“I don’t have a reservation.”
“I hope you’re not starving because I doubt I can get you in ’til ten. Solo?”
“I was supposed to meet someone.”
“Name?”
The Big Guy.”
Her eyes widened like the beaks of baby birds at breakfast. “Himself?”
“His sister Mary Beth.”
She looked down her list. “Oh,” she frowned. “Mary Beth asterisk. That’s who that was.”
“Was?”
“For 7:30. I already cancelled it,” she sighed. “Nobody claimed. I’d recognize her if she walked in. She hasn’t been here.” She thought a moment. “Why don’t you have a drink and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
He struggled through the crowd. Spied a patron get up from a stool just as he reached the oblong bar. He placed his hand on the backrest before the customer was out of it as one of the tenders, Roy, removed the empty glass and napkin. “Evening, Terry. Usual?”
“Make it a double.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Samson saw a head snap in his direction, then looked directly into the man’s icy gaze.
“How ya doin’, Mitchell?”
The name was what most everyone used on the Bishop. Because everyone sensed he hated that his first and last names were identical. Because everyone knew he preferred to be addressed by his title.
“Secretary Samson,” he responded, taking a long drag on his cigarette, then staring at something or someone on the far side of the bar.
“Quite a day, huh?” he smiled as he reached for Mitchell’s pack of Dunhills, not bothering to ask if he could bum a weed because the Bishop liked to have someone—anyone—share a smoke.
“Quite a day.”
“I realize you’re not happy about me getting the Finance position,” Samson said, picking up the Bombay Sapphire silver bullet Roy delivered.
“Shag off.”
“Got a light?”
Mitchell pushed a box of house matches toward him and continued to gaze straight ahead. “You’ve got no business over at Administration. You’re in way over your head. But I suppose you’ve already figured that one out, eh?”
Samson lit the cigarette and took a slight pull, the sensation reminding him why he’d officially quit at Kim’s urging.
“I figured that one out about three seconds into my tenure. But that’s not the point.”
The man gave a conciliatory grin. “Maybe you’re a little smarter than I give you credit for.”
“I don’t have the brains you’ve got, but do have a little common sense. I mean,” he continued, taking a stronger pull on the Dunhill, “you should have gotten the nod. I guess there’s just a lot of stuff going down right now that Peter needs you to handle. How would you like it if I was Chief-of-Staff right now?”
Mitchell cackled. “You’ve got me there, Samson. How about if I pick this one up for you,” he ended, motioning toward the martini.
“Thanks.” Samson lifted the glass slightly toward him. Mitchell returned the gesture.
“You’re right. We’ve got a lot in front of us for the next couple of days. And while I mean this with no disrespect toward you or Party, I think your take on the Pontiff is right on the money. No pun intended.”
“No pun received,” he agreed. “And I appreciate your understanding. Let’s just dig in together and see our way through it.”
“Agreed,” Mitchell replied, finishing his drink and motioning to Roy for another. “Find out anything about Silver Piece yet?”
“Silver Piece?” Samson asked, downing half of his cocktail then gesturing to the bartender for a reinforcement.
“Mr. Secretary? I’ve got a pretty good handle on what’s going on. That’s what my position is all about. The Pope’s agenda. The Pope’s interests.”
Samson held his reply until the next round was sitting in front of them. Knowledge was the coin of the realm.
“Give me a little credit, Secretary,” Mitchell cautioned. “If we’re going to be working together, we’ve got to work together.”
“Silver Piece?” Samson asked again, hoping he could get a bit more groundwork down before entering into a tacit, maybe direct communication with Peter’s right hand.
“What His Holiness told you to look into.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s a pretty naive question.”
“I’m a pretty naive Secretary.”
“All right,” Mitchell sighed, pulling out a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling deeply. “Castro dies. The luck of the draw. Whatever the case, he was on to something much bigger than you or me or the whole frigging operation. Just before he cashes in the chips, he takes the time to mention to the Pope this pit he’d gotten deep into, the tag being a colorful, intriguing phrase. There. Think I got a focus on the mission you’ve been sent on?”
“I guess.”
“So what did you find out?”
“Nothin’ yet.”
Mitchell thought a moment. “Did you get into the system?”
“As best I could.”
“Did the Pope give you the password?”
“Yeah.”
“Which was?”
“He gave it to me.”
Mitchell smiled, his countenance acknowledging that his prey was versed. “Good man. There may be hope for you, if not in the hereafter, at least in the Creek!”
They laughed.
“So what did you find?”
“Nothing,” Samson replied. “Yet.”
“It’s got to be there, somewhere in the system. You need some help?”
“I might.”
“Give me a call if you do. But whatever you do, don’t get those Transponder geeks involved.”
Samson nodded, not so much for the offer but more because Geek was a perfect moniker for his interrogator. “Okay. Now how about if you give me a little insight into a few matters.”
“For instance.”
“Helicopter.”
“Three dead. Unidentified. No other accomplices despite the observations of one D. Zitzer. Nothing to do with us, though. Just happened to crash on our turf.”
“Government going to be let in to investigate?”
“After Security shoots its wad.”
“That Council meeting was really something. Wasn’t at all like I thought it would be.”
“Most of them are lightweights. They don’t focus on much more than their provincial issues. We’re in control. And come Wednesday afternoon we’ll be a lot more in control.”
“Did Pelosi really try to sack me?”
“Almost did. She got ten of them. But with Primovich in our back pocket, we’ve really got no difficulties steering that group. Almost doesn’t count except in shaka.”
“Why the private ceremony for Castro?”
“Pope’s call.”
“You agree?”
“Doesn’t matter. If the Pope wants it that way, the Pope gets it that way.” Mitchell paused. “He’s got heavier things to lift. The least of his worries is staging a major religious display. We don’t need the press right now.”
“That’s his reason?”
“The Pope doesn’t need a reason.”
“Do you know what Angelique is doing here?”
“Chucking for an annulment.”
“That all?”
“You’ve got other theories?”
“No,” Samson lied. “Just curious. But what with her here at… “
He felt a hand drop onto his shoulder and squeeze it.
Chapter Fourteen
Mary Beth kissed his cheek. He picked up the daisy he’d taken from Zitzer and held it out. She chuckled, melodramatically accepting it. “I promise I’ll keep this one, okay?”
“This I gotta see.”
She said hello to Mitchell who nodded in return. Samson asked if she wanted something to drink, adding that there wouldn’t be any tables available for a few hours but that he could check again. She motioned to the door. He stood, telling Mitchell he’d call the following day. The Bishop shrugged.
Not ten steps from the bar they were stopped by Crystal and Saar, the proprietor asking if they were ready for their table. The hostess guided them to one of the eight tables perched on the outside balcony, easily the best in the house, overlooking the street and affording nice views of both the Village and the spire of the Cathedral. The table was meant to seat four but on a nod from Crystal was immediately converted into one for two by three busboys.
Before they could get the starched napkins out of the rings, Saar appeared with a waitress and launched into gushing tributes to Peter, Mary Beth, Samson, the weather and the specials for the evening, stressing shrimp/house pate appetizers followed by the roasted chicken with pineapple and sugar snap peas entree. Of course, he added, they should think about it over a bottle of champagne and without waiting for a reply sent the waitress to fetch a bottle of Dom Ruinart. Samson laughed, saying to Saar that he’d never had such fine service in the years he’d been coming to Kuang’s, and was impressed the man knew DR was his favorite. The owner thought a moment, recommended he bring Mary Beth around more often then added: “All on the house tonight.”
Sanctuary Creek Page 15
